


Cut Out My Heart

by rideswraptors



Series: Let Me Steal You [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Stories about the little wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-15 14:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Jon and Sansa's daughter learns of her future role in the South.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey ya'll, it's been forever. I have a couple of pieces pending for Let Me Steal You. Hope you enjoy!

Finding Lyanna Stark took only a rudimentary understanding of her father. If she was not near the training yard, then she was either in the armory, the kennels, or the stables, in that order. You would rarely find her near the kitchens or in the children’s solar. And if she was upset, if she needed some quiet in order to think, then the eight year old princess could always be found in the godswood.

 

She sat cross legged in front of the pond, Winter sprawled out at her side, with her chin in her hands and a crease between her brows. Against the familiar, homey darkness of the godswood, she was a bright blur in her pale blue gown. Somehow, she always managed to keep her fire-kissed curls bound in a neat braid, but the dirt on her hem and the tears on her cuffs seemed to detract from it. Like her aunt before her, she was a fighter, rider, archer, and a fierce competitor. But like her mother, she understood the importance of domestic responsibilities and could stitch, wash, and bake. Not that she particularly enjoyed the sedentary, menial tasks. Lyanna was the spitting image of her namesake if you imagined her hair darker, and an echo of her Tully grandmother. She was a wild thing of the North, and it made this conversation all the more difficult.

 

With a determined sigh, Sansa held a hand up to stay Lucan at the entrance, and lifted her skirts to make her way to her daughter. Steel shot out ahead of her, going to pounce on her sister. Lyanna hardly reacted to their romping, but she did lift her eyes to her mother.

 

She hung her head and picked at her dirty hem, “I am sorry for shouting.” Sansa smiled, taking determined strides and then gracefully sitting down on the other side of her, much to Lyanna’s surprise.

 

“I know you are,” she responded gently as she arranged her skirts. She snapped her fingers at the wolves and pointed to the ground. They both dropped the body part trapped between their jaws and settled, but still nudged and swatted at each other.

 

“Does Father know?” Lyanna asked miserably. Poor thing, Sansa thought. There was no fate in the world worse than her father’s disappointment for the princess of Winterfell.

 

“I am certain he does.”

 

“I did not mean to get upset.”

 

“Of course you didn’t,” Sansa agreed, smoothing her hair back. Unfortunately, there was no way to have prevented this. They hadn’t foreseen having to discuss this with their eldest daughter, not for many more years, at any rate. Sansa supposed the idea was on her mind, regardless. Several of her friends and companions were already betrothed and several more would marry soon if they had not already. This was the one conversation Sansa had hoped never to have with her.

 

But then Daenerys’ pregnancy went to term, and the child survived. Aegar, a boy, was going on two years now. He was not the healthiest of babes, and the maesters said there was something wrong with his spine and legs, but he was eating and breathing well. And so, the subject of an alliance was once again broached. There was no question in Daenerys’ mind; Lyanna would wed Aegar when he was of marrying age and become the Crown Princess of the Iron Throne.  Jon thought it best to inform Lyanna of these plans immediately, so that she could adjust to the idea, and so that when the children finally met, there would be some level of understanding between them. Sansa, naturally, despised all of it. In her heart of hearts, she had resigned herself to losing either Lyanna or Ned to King’s Landing, but to do so with a nuptial treaty made her feel nauseous. She tried to remember that this was Daenerys, that things had changed, but the thought gutted her all the same.

 

“I don’t want to get married,” Lyanna muttered dejectedly. She still wouldn’t look up at her mother, her face crumpled and wistful as she considered her own fate. Sansa let out a deep breath.

 

“Did you know that your father is my third husband?” That caught her daughter’s attention. She whipped her steely gaze up to her mother with wide eyes and mouth gaping. Sansa nodded, “Mhmm, my first husband was your Aunt Daenerys’ Hand, Tyrion Lannister, and our marriage was annulled. My second husband was a Knight of the Vale, Harold Hardyng, but he died after the war. And then I married your father a couple of years after my coronation.”

 

“Why did you get married  _ so many times _ ?” Lyanna asked in a hushed, reverent tone, as if her mother was some kind of marvelous lady of a song. Sansa laughed.

 

“I did not wish to. I was wed to Tyrion while I was being held prisoner by the Lannisters. They wanted to use me to keep Winterfell. And I was wed to Harry while Petyr Baelish was hiding me away in the Eyrie. Him, I liked even less.”

 

“But you liked Father,” she said tentatively. Sansa smiled, feeling a small blush twinge at her cheeks. Even now, discussing Jon with anyone was enough to send her into a fit of embarrassment. Five babes and a sixth in her belly and she still felt a blushing maid.

 

“Not always, and not at first. It was…” she straightened, rocking her hips to get comfortable, “At first it was strange. Your father and I were raised here as brother and sister once. It was not until the end of the war that we discovered he was your great aunt Lyanna’s son and not my father’s. And even then…” she trailed off wistfully, looking around her where the first of their memories together were made. She felt a surge of affection for her daughter who was conceived in this very place, the place where she often fled for comfort and respite.

 

“It took time for us to…understand one another. There are some lords and ladies who meet and instantly fall in love, and there are still more who wed and despise each other all their lives. But some…some come to respect and love each other in ways they couldn’t have possibly imagined.”

 

“Like you and Father?” she whispered. Sansa nodded.

 

“Like me and your father, like my own parents.”

 

“That sounds like a song…” Lyanna objected grumpily. The princess loved songs, she loved dancing and music, but she did not put much stock in the stories behind them. She thought most of the ladies silly and preferred the ones where they donned swords and armor instead of pretty gowns and bridal cloaks. Sansa had always encouraged that attitude, not wanting her to get lost in fantasies as her mother had.

 

“Well, I agree that most songs are quite silly,” Sansa began slowly, “However, stories such as those are told because there are some truth to them.” Lyanna rolled her eyes, face absolutely disbelieving, making her mother grin. “Do not make that sour little face at me, young lady. For instance, we were told stories of dragons and White Walkers as children, we were told about giants and greenseers and darker times ahead. For a long while, none of us truly believed in them. We thought them made up by our nurse to scare us into good behavior.”

 

“But they weren’t,” Lyanna protested. She and her siblings had grown up hearing the stories of their aunt and father battling the Others with dragons. Had heard the tale of Wun Wun, had seen firsthand the way their Uncle Bran could cast his Sight. These things were very real for them.

 

“No, they were not. But the same is also true for the other stories, the ones about lord and ladies and falling in love.” Lyanna twisted her lips skeptically. “I agree that most are quite off the mark. I used to believe that my life would be exactly like one of those songs. I believed that I would wed a charming prince with golden hair, and that the people would sing songs of how in love we were. That we would have many golden sons who would grow into fantastic knights and we would have daughters so beautiful that men would travel far just to look upon them.” She cut a glance at her daughter to see her reaction and burst into delighted laughter at the sight of her disgust.

 

“Ask your Aunt Arya, I was a very foolish little girl.” She sighed. “That was all a very long time ago, and I have since learned better.”

 

“But—but if you don’t believe that anymore, then how can those stories be true? Because you love Father and Father does  _ not _ have golden hair.”

 

Sansa chuckled and kissed her head, stroking back the curls at her ears, “No, he does not. However, before we wed, I realized that many songs are greatly exaggerated. Minstrels always describe knights and heroes as if they were the strongest, handsomest, and most charming men that ever existed. That they were so brave they never feared anything, that they smiled and gave ladies flowers and won hearts by winning tourneys.”

 

Lyanna frowned, “But not Father?”  Sansa let herself look up into the leaves of the heart tree, reminiscing.

 

“Your father while a very good fighter and very strong, is not the best or the strongest. He is also not the most beautiful and far, far from the most charming man I’ve ever met. He began smiling much more after you were born,” she tapped Lyanna’s nose, “He is always afraid that something might happen to one of you or to me, though he is one of the bravest men I have ever encountered. And I would expire from shock if he ever thought to pick flowers for me.” Even Lyanna laughed at that. After all, his wedding gift to Sansa had been a dagger rather than the standard jewels. 

 

“And most importantly, he won my heart because he worked tirelessly to earn my respect. He did not have to swing a sword or defeat a large number of men or knock a man from a horse. And he certainly did not win me over with smiles and pretty compliments.” They both laughed together at that. “No, he helped me rebuild my home, to improve the conditions of my kingdom for the people. He gave advice and consolation when I asked for it. He helped make me a better queen.”

 

Lyanna sighed, “That sounds like a lot of work.”

 

Sansa smiled, “It  _ is _ a lot of work. But when you care about something, you must put a great deal of effort into nurturing it. I could not have loved your father otherwise.”

 

“How—?” Lyanna started but cut herself off, uncertain either of her question or embarrassed she was asking at all. The girl usually wasn’t very self-conscious, but then again, the two of them had never truly discussed boys or love. She angled herself toward Sansa, head tilted. 

 

“When did you know you loved him?” And that actually made her laugh in response. She remembered  _ exactly _ when the thought had struck her because it had been such a ridiculous, unromantic, un-songlike moment. Her mind had adamantly resisted the label, had refused to call it as such, but a good deal of time and reflection later she had pieced it together.

 

“At the time, I would have told you that I did not know what I was feeling. I certainly told your aunts that. But—Well, there was one day several moon’s turns before we even discussed marriage that your father rode out with me to one of the villages near Castle Cerwyn. We had received some complaints and I wished to discuss them with the farmers before sorting it out with their lord.” She laughed through her nose. “There was a bean farmer who was at the center of the dispute, but his wife had recently died and he was far too distracted trying to prepare his children’s supper to speak with me. So, I made your father sit down and peel potatoes so the two of us could talk.”

 

Lyanna gawked at her mother, horrified, “You  _ made _ Father peel potatoes?” The princess was not ignorant. She was old enough to ride into the villages with them from time to time and was happy enough to help with the chores. She had seen the king work alongside the smallfolk, though it was usually to build structures or haul materials. She had probably never seen him in the kitchens, but actually, he wasn’t a terrible cook when he put his mind to it.

 

“Yes, little wolf, your father can peel vegetables. Shocking, I know.”

 

“So what happened next?” She wriggled excitedly. “Did the farmer attack you and Father whupped him?”

 

Sansa barked a laugh, “Oh no, no.  _ Nothing _ happened. Nothing at all. I spoke at length with the farmer and your father made stew for his children.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

Sansa shrugged, “That’s it. He helped me without complaining; he did not speak over me or make me seem foolish. He was doing something most men consider a woman’s work while I was conducting business. He sat in a poor man’s home and made his supper and never once treated him or his children with anything but respect.  And I knew.” She shrugged again. “I knew I could marry him and be happy.”

 

Lyanna still looked skeptical, “That does _ not _ sound like a song.” So Sansa put an arm around her shoulders and knocked her temple to hers.

 

“All right, you want a song. How about this? When my father was executed in the capital, there was a man, Janos Slynt. He was a horrible man, and he betrayed my father in the vilest of ways. For a long time, I prayed someone would take his head. That anyone, even the Others, would kill him for me as my revenge. Well, he did die, but it was only very recently that I discovered that it was your father who swung the sword.” Lyanna’s eyes bugged out in amazement. “How’s that for a song?”

 

“That’s a good one.”

 

Sansa smiled and kissed her head, “Songs are stories which are finished. Tales of a life complete. Our lives cannot be true songs until long after we are gone, Lyanna, and even then the world will never know the best of us.” She stroked her cheek and twirled the end of her braid. “You are a child of Summer and your story has barely begun, but it will be what you make of it. Aegar is but a babe now, but one day you will meet and you will have to decide then and there what kind of woman and what kind of wife you want to be. I cannot promise that he will be as good and kind as your father. I cannot promise that you will come to love him, but I do know that you will make the best of it. That you are strong of heart and mind, and you will do your best by him. If you cannot love him, you will find a way to respect him at the very least. But more importantly, you will be the queen. You will rule the South and rule it well because you are kind and generous and very much loved. That much I do know.”

 

Lyanna was watching her with big, rounded eyes, torn between flattered and terrified. Poor little thing. Sansa, unable to resist, pressed another kiss to her forehead and patted her knee.

 

“Now,” she continued, “Go hug your father and apologize.” Startled, Lyanna’s head twisted around to see Jon walking sedately into the wood, eyes locked on them. The princess sprung to her feet and darted over to throw her arms around his middle. The king swept her up smoothly, pressing a kiss to her cheek before setting her back to the ground and crouching to speak with her quietly. Sansa got to her feet and unhurriedly brushed off her skirts and arranged herself, giving the pair time to have their conversation. The wolves followed when she walked toward them.

 

“Go on,” she heard Jon say, “Your brothers are looking for you.” Lyanna threw her arms around her father’s neck once more and then was off with Winter hot on her heels. As Sansa ambled forward, Jon straightened, leaning to intercept her and kiss her proffered cheek.

 

“Eavesdropping now, are we?” she japed lightly, taking up his arm. Jon rolled his eyes unimpressed.

 

“I was…concerned. She is still young to be having this conversation.”

 

“Yet every girl must have it,” she mused, pulling her skirts to avoid a mud puddle. “It would have happened whether she were here at Winterfell or in King’s Landing. Ideal as it would be for her to never wed should she choose, it is not the world we live in. She is a princess, and the best we can do for her is to prepare her.”

 

“And if Aegar is anything like Joffrey?”

 

She tilted her head in a shrug, “Is that not why Arya is training her to use a dagger?”

 

Jon snorted, “At any rate, I hope you are right. It is one thing for us to make deals between parents by raven, but it is another to see her reaction to it.”

 

“You expected something lesser?” she asked gently.

 

“I am not sure what I expected.  But, I haven’t seen a child that distraught since Septa Mordane informed Arya that ladies did not become knights.”

 

Sansa tightened her grip on his arm as they walked. She really did not have much to say in response to his voiced concerns. Though not as high strung as Catarya, Lyanna had never been one to hide her feelings well. Her reactions were certainly much smaller, but she was accustomed to having her own way. A result of being overly spoiled by her father, if you asked her mother. Sansa would have to take a more active role in her education from there on, but other than that, there was very little either one of them could do. Besides, there was still plenty of time. They would not marry until Aegar was at least three and ten, and he would have to survive that long. Tyrion was concerned about his health. The two talked quietly about when a trip south would be necessary. For obvious reasons, Sansa wanted to wait until the boy was at least talking. Jon thought it might be off-putting for Lyanna to meet her betrothed when he was so much smaller than she was.

 

“A few more years then,” Sansa agreed.

 

“At least.”

 

Neither one told the other how pleased they were with putting it off for as long as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

By all accounts, a person’s favorite day ought to be their own Name Day. But Crown Princess Lyanna Stark had never truly followed typical guidelines. She always much preferred her brother Eddard’s Name Day. It came when the snow melted and the passes cleared and the Free Folk would visit Winterfell for supplies and trade. Her parents would host a fantastic feast and a tourney and sometimes Southron knights would make the journey north to compete.

Lyanna loved it. Loved that the castle was full and all her favorite people were there. Uncle Tormund had promised to bring her a bow from a heart tree North of the Wall. Uncle Gendry was fashioning new weapons and armor for Winterfell’s champions and said if he had time, he’d make her a helmet. Ned would get the bulk of the gifts, of course, but she always got little trinkets because as her mother said, Lyanna was special.

She was going to be queen of the Iron Throne one day, like her Aunt Daenerys, the most beautiful woman in the world. After mother, of course. But Mother always said Lyanna would be even more beautiful than the queen. She had fire kissed curls and her father’s steely gray eyes. They said she was the spitting image of her namesake, and an echo of her Tully grandmother.

Lyanna, Ned, and Catarya Stark had climbed the outer battlements to sit on an abutment and watch their parents’ guests arrive. They made a game out of recognizing the banners and sigils. Ned was much better at recognizing the Northmen’s banners, while Lyanna knew the Southron banners better. Of course she knew the difference, but it came much slower. She was going to be the Southron queen one day, so her father said it was more important for her to learn her future bannermen’s sigils. She was explaining a subtle difference to Cat when they spied a party that none of the Stark children needed help recognizing.

“Uncle Tormund! Uncle Tormund!” Lyanna shouted, jumping to her feet. They waved their arms like mad until the old lord of the Free Folk waved back and blew his horn. The three Stark children howled their response.  _ Ow-Ow-Owoooooooooooo _ ! The party Free Folk answered in kind, replicating the wolf song so often heard around Winterfell. Then the children scrambled to climb down, sliding the last part of the way to greet the Free Folk in the courtyard.

They were met at the bottom by Winter, her pups, and an irritated looking Ghost, but Ned and Cat paid them no mind as they ran to greet Tormund. Lyanna dutifully kissed their snouts and sprinted after her brother and sister with a shout. She ran smack dab into Uncle Rickon who swept her up onto his shoulder, and she giggled and kicked her feet like mad as he pretended to still be looking for her.

“Uncle Rickon! Put me down!”

“I hear a pretty voice but I don't see the pretty girl…”

She squealed when he tickled her as he dropped her back to the ground.

“There’s the pretty girl!”

“Uncle  _ Rickon _ !”

She jumped to kiss his cheek and then ran to fling herself into Tormund Giantsbane’s arms. He swung her around, laughing heartily at her exuberance.

“Ach! Little she-wolf! What a sight for sore old eyes!”

“Did you bring my bow? Did you bring my bow?”

“Har har har! Course I did! Can’t let the sharpest eye in the North go without the best bow, now can I?”

“Can I go on the hunt with you?”

“Only if you want your mummy to make my guts into stockings! Har har little wolf, too young for a hunt yet!”

“But  _ Uncle Tormund _ !” she whined.

“Don't nag, Lyanna Stark, I raised you to be more polite and ladylike than that!” Her mother’s prim voice called out to her. 

Sansa Stark, looking every inch a queen, crossed the courtyard with her arm firmly around her husband’s. Jon Stark looked sorely amused and was trying very hard to hide it. He had trouble denying his firstborn daughter anything, and as a result she was rarely disciplined as she ought to have been. Behind them Aunt Meera wheeled Uncle Bran in his funny chair. He couldn’t use his legs and he got tired a lot, but Aunt Meera was strong and she took care of him. The two couples struck an odd image, even more so when you added Aunt Arya in her Queensguard armor and regalia and Uncle Gendry in his simplistic, formal tunic and Stark cloak.

But Lyanna thought her parents to be the very image of perfection. Her father was a hero they sang songs about, a mighty swordsman of legendary repute. Her mother had survived a great many trials in the south and came out stronger. She was beautiful and refined, and adored by the people. They loved each other deeply and fiercely, and they never wavered in their desire to keep the Northern Kingdom strong or flinched when it came to doing the right thing. Lyanna always thought their real life together was better and more romantic than any song she’d ever heard. And they looked so beautiful standing together. Still, she wished they would not treat her like a baby, like Robb.

She pouted at their refusal, but still wriggled happily when Tormund set her to her feet. He reached to his horse and plucked a girl-sized bow from his pack and passed it to her.

“From the boughs of a weirwood, little princess.”

Lyanna crowed her victory, kissing his cheek and telling him how handsome it was. For, it truly was a finely crafted bow. There were intricate carvings of wolves and crows and dragons with obsidian inlay. It was one of the most beautiful gifts she’d ever received. She didn’t even care that the Free Folk would gift Ned with an obsidian spear, a horse, and a sword. Her bow was so exquisite that it was beyond petty comparisons.

*

Jon watched his eldest daughter dance reels with Tormund’s grandsons, watched her fiery curls whip and heard her bright peals of laughter. Such a lovely, free spirit. A wild northern thing. A true wolf. Though Ned was his heir, his pride and his strength, Lyanna was his heart’s desire, the apple of his eye, everything he had ever dreamed of. She had Sansa’s kind spirit, Arya’s ferocity, and all the beauty her lineage could provide. She could slash you to the quick with her tongue and then turn around with a sweet smile and a perfect curtsy. She had all of Sansa’s diplomatic courtesies. The witch at the Wall had foreseen Jon’s son as Daenerys’ heir, but Jon had always thought this folly. What the witch saw was a Stark heart, pure and true and vibrant, nothing more. But men alone were not Starks.

Jon reached his hand out to find his wife’s. He brought it to his lips to press a long kiss on her soft skin, even as he watched his children.

“Dormund has already promised to take Lyanna out shooting tomorrow,” Sansa whispered, leaning in closer than necessary.

“Of course he has. Because not a soul alive can deny the little minx.”

She scoffed, “ _ You men _ cannot deny her. I am perfectly capable.”

“She’s a good girl.”

“She’s a wild thing. With a wild heart. And I worry—you know what worries me.”

“Daenerys was once a wild thing with a wild heart.”

“I would not have her suffer so.”

“No mother ever would, but that’s the way of it.”

*

Lyanna spun and twirled and giggled breathlessly as hands passed her through the throng of dancers. Everything was hazy and out of focus. The room was so blurry and she couldn’t breathe properly. Gods, she loved dancing, she loved how fast it was, how connected she felt to everyone around her.

She passed by Elania, Darra, and Jaida who were smiling brilliantly and then back into Torrhen’s arms. They clasped hands and skipped down the line, their arms dipping from side to side. At the end of the line she kissed his cheek and they spun apart. While her parents fretted and reminisced, Lyanna was completely and blissfully free, perfectly happy as all little girls should be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might seem a little redundant, but I wanted more family bonding time.

It took Jon at least an hour to shake off Dorin and Sam so that he could go find his family. Yes, he had a kingdom to help protect, and people to coordinate, but there were many days when his children simply came first. He could only take so much of the endless talking and the politics. Sansa was just better suited for it. A trip out to the river with the children and the direwolves was long overdue.

Finding Stark children in Winterfell was never difficult; you merely followed the sounds of laughter and chaos. All six of his children with Sansa were energetic and adventure-seeking. Mischievous, as well. They were thicker than thieves and rarely left each other’s company.

But there were very few places Stark children would be at noontime, and Jon was headed straight for it.

He stood outside the door for just a moment, listening to the ruckus within. There was a crack, laughter, and subdued direwolf barks followed quickly by Sansa’s prim reprimand. Things settled for a moment before several protests erupted. That’s when he chose to go in.

The children were seated around the big table Sansa had commissioned after the twins were born, with Sansa in a position to see all of them, baby Robb at her breast. The direwolves were lying down, obediently, near the hearth, waiting for the children. The protests he heard before immediately morphed into very persuasive arguments for him to moderate the moment his children noticed him. Lyanna claimed that Rhaemon was kicking her, and he insisted that it was Ned, who’d flicked his supper at him and accidently hit Catarya, who’d accidentally elbowed Rhaenys who was currently teary eyed and rubbing her arm pitifully.

Jon scowled, raising a hand to silence them, which was effective if only for a moment.

“Ned, if you want to spat with Lyanna, take it out to the yard. No need to injure all of your siblings in the process.” He took up Rhaenys’ arm to check for bruising, and tried to stifle a laugh at the excessive pout she was putting on. He kissed the reddened spot, picked the sprouts out of Catarya’s hair, and then went to greet his wife. All of the children groaned at their prolonged kiss, slouching in their seats and rolling their eyes.  Jon pulled away just slightly, his hand on the back of her chair, just to see that twinkle in Sansa’s eye.

“How’s his belly?” he asked quietly, not wanting to upset his children further, he ran a hand over Robb’s soft head, marveling at that downy softness.  

“We’ll see,” Sansa sighed, adjusting him against her so that he rested more comfortably. “At least he’s eating, but I can’t tell if he can keep it down.”

“That’s gross!” Rhaemon whined, “we are _eating_.”

“Shut it Rhae or I’ll make sure he spews all over your dinner!” Catarya said waving her fork at him.

Sansa sighed, “That’s enough, Cat. You all must be quite finished if you can talk so much…” Immediately the children were attentive to their food, looking squarely down at their plates and silent. Jon laughed, kissing his wife again and then his son’s head. He pulled up a stool to sit next to her, watching his children eat, swiping bits from his wife’s plate.

“She wrote again,” Sansa muttered, handing him a grape that was just out of reach. Jon nodded as he ate. He’d heard from Sam that Danaerys had been insistently writing Sansa for the past turn. Their correspondence was far from unusual, so he’d not thought much of it. If Sansa was bringing it up now, then it wasn’t anything good.

“Trade?” Sansa shook her head. “Dragons?” She shook it again.

“She wants us to visit.”

Five small heads snapped immediately to attention, staring at their parents. Jon spared them a quick glance, rolling his eyes. Couldn’t hear it when Gilly shouted at them to wash behind their ears, but they could catch the scent of a good time from a mile away. Rhaenys tugged at his sleeve. When he looked down at her, she was staring right back up at him, sharp blue eyes squinting. He misliked that some of his children so resembled the Targaryens, but the redeeming point were that they had Sansa’s eyes. Winter souls.

“Do you need something, pup?” he asked lightly, overlooking the fact that she was interrupting an adult conversation.

“Why does Aunt Dany want us to come to King’s Landing? Is she lonely?”

“Not at all, pup,” he said ruffling her hair. She smiled brightly up at him and he looked back to a very fond-looking Sansa. “It’s irrelevant anyway. Robb is far too young to travel.”

“You could—” Jon cut his wife off with a frown. She only just managed to look sheepish.

“All of us or none of us,” he told the rest of his children. He and Sansa had had this same discussion many times. Over the course of the years, they had resisted a trip to King’s Landing because of the children. Jon refused to travel for that long without Sansa, and the thought of sending Sansa alone with Lyanna was unthinkable. Dany had visited, certainly, but that was before Aegar was born.

“The pack stays together,” Lyanna declared. The effect was ruined by the rest of them letting out short howls which startled Robb. With a sigh, Sansa moved Robb to her shoulder, adjusting her dress. Jon took pity on her and reached for their son to pat his back and help him digest. Sansa looked at him gratefully, finally taking a bite of her own meal.

“All right, pups, go play outside, give your mother a chance to rest.” They jumped up from their seats, clearing their places and depositing their dishes on the servant’s cart. They made their rounds, kissing their parents’ cheeks, and ran out, bickering and howling down the corridor. There were shouts indicating that the other children had found them. Their cousin Mycah’s maddening laughter tended to reverberate off the walls.

Sansa shook her head, “That sound has to be a Baratheon trait. No Stark or Tully was ever _that_ loud.”

Jon rubbed his son’s back, rocking him while he drifted off to sleep. “Mmm, probably. I remember Robert being particularly obnoxious.” He considered his wife thoughtfully. “Was she upset?”

“Confused,” Sansa said, breathing out as she reached for her tea. “She understands our reasons, of course. She always understands, but…”

“It’s almost time,” he finished.

She nodded, “It’s almost time.”

Jon brought his son down from his shoulder to cradle him in his arms. He was still so small, but he could see the traces of his namesake in the baby. Little things, like a pout or a crease in his forehead, the shape of his eyes, the line of his hair. Every time they had a child, it was as if they were bringing pieces of their past back to life.

“Three years,” he concluded. “We’ll write at tell her that we will visit in three years. Lyanna will be ten and three, Robb will be four. It’s a reasonable timeline.”

Sansa reached for Robb’s toes, rubbing his foot.

“At least then Aegar would be able to speak in full sentences.”

“She’s so young,” Jon mused. “Too young.”

Sansa leaned over, kissing his temple, turning her head so that they could watch their son together, “So were we. Once.”

“That was lifetimes ago.”

“For you, quite literally.” Jon chuckled at her cheekiness, knocking his head lightly against hers. “He needs to nap,” she said much more softly.

“I’ll take him. Just a moment.” Jon stood, cradling the boy carefully as he took him into the nursery. A maid was in there cleaning up, so he put the boy in his bassinet and asked her to call for him when Robb woke. Jon quickly returned to Sansa, finding her sitting on the sill, looking out the window which overlooked the yard. The children were running about the yard, making nuisances of themselves, being a little reckless with themselves and each other. But happy. Three years and all of that would change. He stood next to her, listening to their shouts, watching her face.

“I can’t bear the thought of sending her away.”

“Aegar is only three years old, Sans.”

“I know.” She brought a hand to her lips, probably to hide its quivering. “But just the thought…”

“One visit. Three years from now. I already told Dany that Lyanna will not marry until she is good and ready. “

“I know.”

“We can’t lock her up…”

“Jon, I _know_.” She let out a frustrated sigh, eyes sliding over to him in her irritation. Discussion of any of the children going South was a sore point of contention between them. Jon had no fond memories of being separated from his family, and Sansa had no fond memories of going South. She should have known that the worst was far from over when they forced her father to kill Lady. She’d been so stupid then.  And yes, obviously it would not be the same place, nor the same people, but her own child…in that place.

“She’s strong,” Jon continued, aware that he was pushing it, “And no matter what happens…we’ll give her everything she needs. Teach her everything we know. She’ll do well. No matter what happens.”

“You optimistic? Of all people…”

He shrugged, putting an arm around her waist, “I have my moments. Besides, you survived the South, I survived the undead, and Lyanna’s smarter than both of us.”

“She corrected my ledger this morning.”

“I hate it when she does that.”

“I blame Bran. I think he’s tutoring her secretly just to jerk us around.”

“I’m telling the cook to put peas in his dinner.”

“Cruel, but justified.”

“Thanks,” he said, kissing her. Sansa leaned into the kiss, prolonging it because she knew any moment someone would come knocking needing one or both of them in five different directions. One of the children was due for an inevitable broken bone, and there were at least three land disputes yet to be settled. She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, letting him pull her in close. All the fabric between them started to feel heavy and irritating. But there was no time. There was never enough time. Her knees nearly gave out when he pulled in her bottom lip.

“It’s been _too long_ ,” she muttered against his lips, sinking into the feeling. Jon brought his hands up to her face, deepening the kiss for long moments before pulling away and knocking their foreheads together.

“You’re not kidding.”

“Tonight?”

“We are eating dinner in here. Alone.”

“Thank the old gods and the new.”

They were about to get back to it when a loud shriek came from down below.

“ _Mother!_ ”

Jon dropped his head to her shoulder, laughing even as she rubbed her fingers along the cords in his neck.

“Duty calls.”

“I’ll trade you for petitions?”

“Not a chance. We made that schedule for a reason. Out you get.”

“You still owe me—!”

“Absolutely nothing, you nut ball. But we can fight it out over dinner, if you like,” she made her way to the door, intending to mediate the yard disputes.

“We are changing the schedule!” he shouted after her.

“Not happening!” she sang back, flapping her hand dismissively.

Sansa could only smile to herself at his enthusiastic _I love you_ as she kept walking.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna learns about her father's scars.

The thing about having children was that boundaries quite often were blurred. Especially when they were young. Jon and Sansa had more of an open-door policy with their children than Ned and Catelyn Stark. Sansa had refused a wet nurse and septa, and instead made use of Gilly and the Durwell women. That inevitably meant that they were helping look after thrice the number of children they actually were responsible for, but Jon had made peace with it. His children were never alone, and Jon never felt alone in raising them.

Still, he wished there were _some_ rules in place when it came to entering their parent’s chambers. He loved them, truly he did, but Jon nearly screeched when his eldest came barreling through their door without a thought to knocking. He just so happened to be in his smallclothes and Lyanna’s speediness left no point in diving for something to cover up.

“Fa— _whoops_!” she shouted, feet stuttering to halt. Her eyes were wide with shock and regret. Jon could only throw his hands up in the air and shake his head at her. Lyanna squeaked and covered her eyes. Her father tried very hard not to laugh, but the whole situation was ridiculous.

“Need something, pup?” he asked drolly as he pulled on his trousers. She’d not seen him without shirt or tunic, but it was a sight better than buck naked.

“Uhmm…” Her face was beet red. “Uncle Sam wanted your permission— _wait_.” She immediately dropped her hands to her hips and glared at him. “What’s _that_?”

Baffled, Jon looked around himself, trying to find something that would confused her. There was nothing.

“What?”

“On your chest. That mark.” She was walking towards him now, pointing up at the scar that still occasionally ached. Standing before him, she tried to reach it, to wipe it away, and Jon felt his eyes sting. _Damn_. Instead of answering, he sat down on a nearby stool and let her inspect it herself. Her little fingers traced over it, gliding back and forth to feel the difference in texture.

“I’ve seen marks like these,” she whispered. “Davos and the Durwells have them on their arms.” Lyanna looked up at him, her bright eyes confused. “They said they got them in the war.”

Jon’s heart clenched painfully. As yet, his children had only heard the songs. They heard the happy and heroic stories of their parents’ lives. They’d not heard the realities of the politics, of what desperate men could do to one another. He’d never wanted this conversation, but Lyanna needed this conversation most of all.

“That’s right, pup, all sorts of people get scarred during wars.”

She frowned, her little brow furrowing tightly, “But you’re the king…”

Jon smiled remorsefully and tugged lightly on her braid. The color of her hair deepened with every passing season, but the shine wasn’t lost.

“I wasn’t always king. I wasn’t meant to be king.” He dipped his head to catch her gaze meaningfully, “But you know that.”

“King Robb,” she answered dutifully.

“That’s right. Your mother’s brother was the rightful King in the North. But he died. Do you remember where I was? What I was doing?”

She took in a deep breath, “At Castle Black with the Night’s Watch.”

“And?”

“And you became Lord Commander when you were chosen over Alliser Thorne after the death of Jeor Mormont.”

He grinned at her, “You’d do well to tutor your brother on his history.” That had her grinning brightly at him, flushed by the praise. She leaned against his knees, hands on his thighs as she waited for the story. He cleared his throat. “My men…they disagreed on how to handle the Wildlings. Some of them decided that I had betrayed the Watch and their cause.” Her eyes widened and her fingers clenched into his trousers. Jon straightened his torso, pointing as he named which man had stabbed him where, and the longer he spoke, the paler she got. “And this one,” he said gently, bringing her hand back to the thickest scar on his chest, “was given to me by a young orphan boy. His name was Olly, and his family was murdered by Wildlings during a raid.”

“A boy?” she croaked out, tears welling.

“No older than you.”

She pulled in her chin as she processed that. “How could—Why would he…?”

Jon brought her to sit on his lap, let her curl against him as the tears slipped down her cheeks. It was brutal and baffling concept, to be sure. He wanted nothing but to keep these realities from her, to keep back the darkness from her bright mind. But there was little to be done. He wrapped his arms around her, rocking slightly.

“He thought it the right thing to do. The honorable thing. He was encouraged by men who had little thought to what was best for him. I never blamed him for it, just wished I could have done better by him.”

“But?” she sniffled wetly, “That’s where your heart is…”

“Aye, it is.”

“ _Papa_ ,” she whispered, pained. Jon squeezed her tight against him and dropped a kiss to the top of her head.

“The story is true, pup.”

She twisted in his arms, absolute horror on her face. He lifted a hand to wipe the streaks of tears from her cheeks. She was overly warm to the touch from crying.

“You actually _died_?” He nodded. “And the Red Woman…she was _real_?”

“Aye, pup. She brought me back to life to finish what had been started.” Lyanna sobbed and reached up to throw her arms around his neck and cry. Jon held her, let her react as she would. He’d nearly done the same when he’d seen Sansa’s scars for the first time, and Lyanna was only a child after all. So, Jon murmured soothing words, rocking her, and shushing her.

“It’s all right, pup. It’s all right. I’m here, I’m here.”

“B-b-b-but you _died_?” she wailed.

He huffed out a restrained laugh through his nose. “Absolutely mad, I know. But I’m alive and well, and trust me, little one, you are proof of that.” She stopped her crying to pull back and look him in the eye. She looked miserable, face blotchy, nose runny, and all it did was make her blue eyes bluer. Jon smiled at his pretty, brilliant daughter. “I never thought I’d have you. Never thought I’d live to meet you. The Red Woman promised you to me, but I was so lost.” He tapped a finger to her nose, “I should have known my daughter would be too stubborn not to exist.” That had her giggling, her little body quaking against him.

“Scars are part of the past, Lyanna,” he told her seriously. “They are part of a story, but you don’t have to regret them. And there’s no need for tears. Without these scars, I wouldn’t have your mother. I wouldn’t have you or your brothers and sisters. I don’t even want to think on the alternatives.”

She nodded, sniffing loudly. Jon could only roll his eyes and press a long kiss to her forehead.

“Now,” he said setting her back to her feet, “What kind of trouble is Sam putting you up to?”

Lyanna smiled brilliantly at him, clapping her hands excitedly as she rapidly gushed out their plans for the afternoon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks visit King's Landing

“Stop fretting,” Sansa snapped as she ushered Robb out of the carriage to Jon’s arms. The boy looked back at his mother with a quivering lip, but she merely smiled at him and stroked one of his curls.

“I am  _ not _ fretting,” her husband argued back. He lifted Robb from the top step and put him to his feet on the red stone of the courtyard. Robb immediately ran off to his siblings who were in awe of the Red Keep looming above them. The direwolves were circling, scenting the place, and staying close to their charges. Steel was mightily displeased with her surroundings, pacing back and forth between Sansa and the children, as if accusing her of neglect. Unfortunately, she was picking up Sansa’s negative reactions to the memories of the Keep. Ghost remained calm and watchful, waiting for Jon’s orders. 

“I will be fine, I promise.” 

Jon helped her from the carriage, letting her put her weight against him while the blood came back to her legs. After she arranged her skirts, he tugged her close.

“You don’t need to lie to me,” he whispered harshly against her ear before nosing against it. Sansa whipped her head sharply around to him.

“I’m not--!” 

They were interrupted by the happy cries of their children as the Queen and her retinue emerged from the entrance of the Keep. The looked up in time to see their wild children dashing over to her for hugs and kisses. Never one to stand on ceremony, Daenerys dropped to her knees to embrace them all, touching their cheeks and reaching for their hands. She cooed over their height and prettiness, and the older five talked all at once, trying to get her full attention with their stories and questions. 

Sansa looked at her husband, all the irritation had melted away from both of them, and tugged his hand along with a smile. They approached their children from behind just as Catarya was demanding to see the stables. 

“Catarya Stark!” Sansa gasped, “Is that how you talk to a lady queen?”

Her daughter turned, looking guilty but not contrite in the least, “No?”

“No dessert,” she countered. Catarya immediately went to protest, but was stifled by her father’s heavy hand on her shoulder. She scowled up at his incredulous expression. After that, the adults laughingly greeted one another. Jon shook hands with Jorah and Grey Worm, embraced Aegon. Dany and Sansa kissed each other’s cheeks, and Missandei dropped into a formal curtsy. 

“Your grace, nephew,” Dany said with eyes shining, “Allow me to introduce to you my son, Aegar Targaryen.” 

She pushed forward a skinny, silver-headed boy with his mother’s bright violet eyes. His hair was shaggy and he seemed pale for a young boy of seven, but he was alive and seemingly healthy. Unfortunately, he looked petrified of the foreigners with their thick clothing and dark looks. With a smile, Jon reached down to shake his hand.

“We have waited a long time to meet you,” he said kindly. Aegar clasped his hand as firmly as he could, and the fear dissipated from his eyes. 

“It is an honor to meet you, your grace,” he said politely. 

Jon turned to his children, “See that?  _ That _ is the proper way to speak to an adult.” He shook his head, and Sansa laughed at the fondness in his voice when he muttered  _ little savages _ under his breath. Thankfully, the others seemed to be just as amused and fond, so there was little chance of offense. 

They were ushered inside, as Aegon gave orders to the stewards and the stable hands to take care of their belongings. Dany took hold of Aegon’s and Robb’s hands as Rhaenys and Catarya excitedly told her the name of their direwolves and all the trouble they caused in Winterfell. She asked them encouraging questions, gasping and laughing in all the right places. As Sansa dashed off to keep Ned and Rhaemon from darting down an interesting corridor, Aegon fell into step with Jon.

“She’s talked of little else but seeing the children for the past  _ turn _ .”

Jon smiled at his brother, “As she should, she’s good with them. And they love her.” 

“I must confess, I had not realized the warming effect children can have on a place. It’s been...brighter and far more cheerful since Aegar was born.” 

“After the second one,” Jon nodded, “it just gets loud.” 

Aegon snorted, “I’ve noticed.”

“No, brother, this is  _ quiet _ . Wait until they start bickering over rooms. Or when your son gives one of the girls more attention than the others. Or when the boys steal their ribbons. Or--”

“Seven  _ hells _ ,” Aegon groaned.

Jon merely clapped him on the shoulder, “Allow me to fetch the mead.” 

*

The Durwells and Brienne were the only of the Stark household to accompany them to King’s Landing. Sansa claimed there was no need to disrupt the entire household when they could manage just as well on their own. The children were taught to cook for themselves and practiced building their own fires. All but Robb rode their own horses, and the carriage was mostly there for their belongings. 

Dany graciously offered to put the children up in their own rooms, which Sansa immediately shot down. The boys would have one room, the girls would be in the adjoining room. 

“It is a lovely thought, but they will run your poor servants ragged if they are all separated. This way we know where to find them quickly.” Dany looked absolutely bewildered at the possibility of losing her nieces and nephews, but for Sansa it was a daily reality. “They tend to...wander,” she informed her sister queen, “Nothing to worry over.” 

She didn’t look wholly convinced and brought Aegar closer to her. They were interrupted when Lyanna came bounding into the room, as usual, but managed to come to a stop and perform a perfect curtsy, which was the only reason she wasn’t scolded for running about the Keep like a wolf-pup. Speaking of, Winter came bounding in after her, nearly knocking her to the floor. It terrified poor, little Aegar, but Lyanna laughed and shoved back at her wolf.

“Mother, your grace,” she dipped into another curtsy, “Might we go to the gardens? D’alla said they were absolutely stunning this time of year and I simply cannot  _ wait _ \--!” She immediately stopped her mouth when her mother raised a hand. 

“You may go,” Lyanna nearly burst with excitement, “For  _ one _ hour. Take your siblings with you.” But she was already turning on her heel to run out, “And Ghost! Be back in time to wash up for dinner!” She was out the door one second, and turning right back around the next. She reached to kiss her mother’s and aunt’s cheeks, grabbed up Aegar’s hand, and was dragging him out into the corridor talking a mile a minute about everything she wanted to see. 

“That one will certainly keep him on his toes,” Dany said wryly, dimples showing as she and Sansa tried very hard not to laugh. Sansa tilted her head in agreement and reach for the bottle of wine. 

“We have one hour to ourselves,” she said pouring out a glass for each of them, “Tell me  _ everything _ .”

*

Lyanna quickly lost track of the prince once they were in the gardens. Her sisters and Jaida Durwell wanted to play games and make flower crowns for their brothers. The boys loudly agreed to this because they would need to mark who was on whose teams. Rhaemon, the scamp, had found sparring swords, and now boys from all over the Keep were swarming the gardens and splitting up into teams to play at war. Lyanna was protesting that they needed to go into the yard, so as not to spoil the gardens. Some of the other boys began teasing her for her prissiness. Well, they were right up until Catarya kicked one of them in the knee and pulled his hair. This had some of the boys laughing, but most of them were running for the yard, calling the Stark girls mad harpies. Lyanna and her sisters laughed as they ran, clutching their sides. 

Of course, then, the girls were being surrounded by the girls from the Keep. They all introduced themselves quickly and excitedly. Most were far too prim, feeling obviously superior in their brightly colored silks and fancy hairstyles compared to the dull wools and leathers of the Northern girls. Rhaenys was enamored of them, but Catarya was having a hard time reining in her snickering until Lyanna shot a look at Jaida who dutifully pinched Catarya in turn. 

“Your brothers are so  _ handsome _ !” one of the older girls giggled, making the others nod and giggle in turn.  

“They…” Lyanna started hesitantly, “They are all right, I suppose.” She made a face at Catarya who snorted. “Where’s Winter?” she asked, turning around, “I wanted to braid flowers on her collar.” Jaida nudged Rhaenys.

“Call them, Nys.” 

Lyanna was inordinately jealous that Rhaenys was the first of them to be able to warg into the direwolves. Lyanna was the oldest, she should have been the first. She had to be contented though, because her mother couldn’t do it until right after the twins were born. It was still stupid. Rhaenys dipped her head back, eyes flashing white, and then there were short barks in the distance. The southron girls looked horrified even as Rhaenys smiled and clapped her hands together at her success. All Lyanna could do was roll her eyes. She’d have thought they would be better educated by the rites of the North. Then again, Mother had warned her this would be the case. She wasn’t optimistic about her ability to fit in with them. Before she could get to brooding, Winter, Steel, and the pups were trotting into the gardens, romping and rolling onto the summer grass. The pretty girls reeled back, terrified at their size, but Lyanna snapped her fingers, telling them all to sit. Immediately all seven direwolves sat. Lyanna smiled at the girls kindly.

“You don’t need to be afraid. They’re good dogs. This is Winter,” she said rubbing the wolf’s ears, “She’s mine. This is her sister Steel, who is my mother’s. That’s Whisper, who belongs to Ned.”

Catarya threw her arms around one of the white dogs, “Mist is mine.”

Rhaenys sat on the ground, allowing her wolf to crawl into her lap and sprawl out, “This is Scarlet.”

“Shepherd belongs to Rhaemon, and Pearl belongs to Robb. We have more at home, but they wanted to stay with their families.”

“Those dogs…” one of the girls said, pointing and shaking, “are so  _ big _ .” The other girls chorused their agreement.

“They’re not dogs,” Catarya said rolling her eyes, “They’re  _ direwolves _ . Of course they’re big!”

“Cat.”

“I know Lya, but look at them! These are pups. They haven’t even  _ seen _ Ghost.”

Lyanna mentally kicked herself. 

“Oh shoot!” she stamped her foot on the ground. “I forgot Ghost.” Of all the direwolves, Ghost was the only one that Rhaenys couldn’t warg into. According to her parents, Father was the only one who could do that. 

Jaida threw her hands up in the air, flabbergasted, “We’ve already got  _ seven _ wolves with us!” 

“It isn’t about the number, Jaida,” Catarya shot back. “Father likes keeping an eye on us.” 

“He could--!” 

Lyanna didn’t stay to listen to them bicker, of course. Those two were always fighting and it would take Rhaenys sweetness to distract them from it. Lyanna liked to make it worse because Catarya had such a horrible temper. But she didn’t have time for it right then. Mother would be so angry if she found out Lyanna took her siblings somewhere without Ghost or Brienne. She was dashing down the corridor when she stopped short at the sound of a whimper. Lyanna had grown very accustomed to listening for small children crying, and it was impossible for her to ignore completely. So she backtracked, and caught sight of a small alcove. Without thinking, she went right in to find Prince Aegar on the floor, his arms around his legs, crying pitifully. 

He was only seven summers, but he was still small for his age. Rhaemon was younger by a year and still much larger. Despite that, he had a pretty face for a boy. And she liked that his silver hair was so much like Rhaemon’s, and that his eyes were almost the exact same shade as her aunt’s.

"Why are you crying?" she asked gently, moving to sit next to him. Jaida would scold her for getting her dress all dirty, but Lyanna reasoned that comforting her betrothed was more important than a travelling dress. He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose, as he stared stubbornly at the ground.

"Because I can't train to fight like the other boys."

“Oh,” she said, a little surprised. She’d never thought on that much. Mother and Father educated all of their children in home and war. Lyanna could ride and shoot, and Ned could cook and mend his own clothing. "Well...Not every man needs to learn to fight. Some need to learn to be wise. Like my Uncle Sam."

Aegar looked at her for the first time, utterly miserable. A little mulish. He was obviously quite spoiled and pampered. Mayhaps he had more suitable manners, but he lacked spirit.

"How can I be a champion of I cannot fight?"

"I can be your champion."

"You know how to fight?" She nodded. "And ride and shoot?" She nodded vigorously. "That could work."

Now that he was cheering up, Lyanna’s excitement returned. She had no desire to talk with a  _ baby _ . If he was going to continue to pout and cry, she would leave. But if he really though her his champion, then all would be well.

"My mother says that your mother and father want to see if you will bond with Rhaegal. If you do, then you can be a dragonrider and together we could command our army." Lyanna jumped to her feet, ready to lead him back out into the gardens and explore.

"But what if I can't?"

"You can and you will. Now get up this instant and stop that foolish weeping. If any boy teases you, I will thrash them."

"Why would you do that?"

Lyanna looked down at him incredulously, as if she were seeing him for the first time. Here he was, she realized, crying all by himself. He was scared and alone. And maybe he was spoiled and pampered and couldn’t take care of himself, but he’d never been taught how. In King’s Landing, he didn’t have a pack. Not like she did. He didn’t have pups to watch over, brothers and sisters to manage. Not like she did. Well, that would have to change. She put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot.

"Because we are to be wed one day! And I’ll not have anyone say a bad word against my husband. If they do, I will flog them myself. Now, get up and show me your toys. Mayhap we can work out a trade. My brother Rhaemon was eyeing that horse of yours."

"And do you think Rhaemon would like me? He's a big boy like Uncle Jorah. And big boys don't like me."

"Rhaemon will adore you, I promise. He's very sweet. And if he doesn't I’ll make him."

"But what about Eddard? He can train in the yard with the others.” Lyanna held out her hand to help him to his feet. He was so slight, even slighter than Rhaenys, so it was a simple task. 

"You will be his good brother one day and he King in the North. He will love and serve you with all of his heart. And one day Rhaemon will join your Kingsguard and Rhaenys, Darra, and Elania will be my lady's maids and we will never let anyone hurt you."

"My mother says that Starks belong in the North. What if you don't like it here?"

"Well my mother says that Starks belong with their pack. And you, cousin, are of our pack. Ned, Catarya, and Robb will keep the North for us and I will keep the South for you."

He was very obviously did not understand the hostility in her voice, did not understand why she was so irritated with him. His cheeks were flushed, but the tears were gone, and he held her hand tightly.

"Can I pet your direwolf?" 

"Of course! Winter loves being fussed over." 

Lyanna slipped her arm through Aegar's and they walked through the corridor together, chatting.

“Oh shoot!  _ Ghost _ !” She dragged him back the other way in search of the big white beast. 

“Is he the scary one with red eyes?” he asked, trembling. 

She rolled her eyes, “Yes, but he won’t hurt you.” Lyanna continued telling him all about their direwolves, their names and who they belonged to and why. She told him about their personalities and how protective they were. By the end of it, the prince seemed much less intimidated. He even brought himself to pet Ghost when they found him. Ghost licked his cheek, and Lyanna laughed at how still Aegar became, too terrified to move.

On the way back to the gardens, they crossed their parents' paths, and Lyanna lifted her hand to them with a bright smile before turning worriedly to Aegar when he faltered. She slowed their pace as Winter came bounding to their side. She nudged up against the prince and nosed his hand so that he would use her as a guardrail. Ghost trotted ahead of them, lumbering over to a shaded spot and closing his eyes even as the pups leapt at and tackled him.

*

"I am surprised she has taken to him so quickly,” Dany said, walking alongside Jon to check on the children. A servant had reported a ruckus in the yard, and Dany feared the worst when it came to Aegar. Jon had tried to reassure her that his boys would never let any other child mistreat him, but she wasn’t wholly convinced, not until she saw him with Lyanna.

"My daughter has a gift with younger children. She always has."

"And broken things, apparently," his aunt said wryly. 

"Aegar is hardly broken."

Dany hummed next to him, her mouth in a straight line. "He doesn't have many companions. He is quite reserved. It's a wonder he is speaking to her at all." Jon knew that she’d written to Sansa about this subject. Aegar needed to be able to endear himself to others, and seemed to lack that innate ability.

"Lyanna takes her responsibilities quite seriously."

"Yes, but kindness is not required in an arranged marriage. She's a healthy, active sort of girl. I cannot imagine she and my son have much to talk about."

"Mayhaps not. But one thing I do know about my girl is that she inherited all of my wife's goodness and none of my sullenness. She knows her kindness will get her much farther than being taciturn."

"She's a good girl."

"And Aegar is a good lad. They will do well together in time."  

"Friendship first. A novel concept in times like these."

"We will not make the same mistakes our fathers did."

"Mayhap a trip North for Aegar is in order."

"Absolutely. Ned would be more than happy to show him what it means to be a Northman."

"And what of Lyanna?"

"My son is a true Northman, noble minded, strong willed. He could face any task, weather out any storm. But, begging your pardon, your grace, Lyanna _ is _ the storm."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa make plans to replace her bad memories of the Red Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, I mistakenly went down a SanSan rabbit hole, and came out more Jonsa than ever.   
> So I'm on a roll with this. Probably will post a couple more chapters this weekend. Who knows?

Jon found her. Because of course he could find her whenever he liked. Sansa had started to wander aimlessly, trying to avoid old habits and patterns to avoid flashing back to terrible memories. He found her in the gallery, examining the portraits and tapestries Daenerys had hung in place of those put up by the Baratheons and Lannisters. He was quiet, but she could hear his heavy footfall, could recognize his presence no matter where they were.

“Following me now?” she asked drolly, not removing her gaze from the portrait of Rhaegar, Jon’s true father. She had hoped to see some similarities between the two. Or maybe she didn’t want to see any similarities at all.

“No,” he answered stubbornly, “Brienne said you went off on your own, so I asked servants until I found you.” She turned, arms wrapped around her middle, giving him a small, rueful grin. Overprotective idiot. It was enough permission for her husband, however, because he took a few steps forward and wrapped his arms around her.

“How are you?” he asked lowly into her temple. He pressed lingering kisses there, not at all bothered by her delayed response.

“I’m all right,” she said haltingly. At this, Jon pulled back, hands resting warmly against her neck, and made a skeptical face. Sansa smiled, much more sincerely this time. “I promise. It isn’t pleasant, particularly.” Her gaze went over his shoulder, to familiar sights. “But the Keep is much changed. So are the people.”

“I want you to tell me when you are not all right.” Sansa sidled closer as he spoke, eyeing him playfully, and pressing herself up against him with intent. “I am trying to be serious, Sansa.”

She chuckled lowly and layered teasing kisses to his jaw and chin. She brought her hands up to his chest, clutching at his doublet. His hands wandered down over the round of her shoulders, to squeeze her elbows, and finally coming to rest at her waist. For someone who was “trying to be serious” he certainly wasn’t making a productive argument.

“I promise to tell you if I get upset,” she said patronizingly, allowing herself to be pulled more tightly against him, so that she had to bend her back a little in order to look at him. She smiled coyly and batted her lashes flirtatiously. She laughed brightly when he scowled. When he kissed her in retaliation, she hummed happily, smoothing her hands up his chest to rest on his shoulders. Sansa would never, ever get over how carefully, how tenderly Jon kissed her. His tongue was warm and firm against hers, lips plush and insistent. She nipped teasingly at that plump pout, smiled against him when he attacked her mouth with new fervor, breaths harsh and shallow. The frisson shot through her, icy hot and making her shiver.

“Jon,” she breathed into his mouth, “ _ Alcove _ .”

“A lord follows his lady’s lead,” he japed, before sliding his tongue back between her lips and tangling it with hers. Sansa moaned into it, her knees nearly buckling. Hazily, she tried to remember where the alcove was, where they were in respect to its location. She grabbed him by his leathers, taking unsteady, halting steps in the direction she hoped was correct. Apparently it was, because instead of meeting a wall, they stumbled through a tapestry into the tiny room behind it. There was a settee and cushions on the floor, heavy drapes covering the windows. Sansa barely registered any of it as Jon pinned her up against the wall.

While she peppered kisses along his jaw and neck, he made quick work of the laces on his breeches. She came off the wall to bite at his earlobe. Jon groaned and bent to lift her to his waist. With practiced ease, Sansa rucked her skirts, giving her weight over to him, and reached down to guide him into the slick heat of her cunt. And  _ gods _ , did it feel good having him in her again. They hadn’t had much privacy on their journey south, not with six children and the direwolves and the whole retinue wanting to keep a close watch of them. But she needed this, needed him filling her. In this position, she didn’t have much control, but she liked feeling helpless against him. She liked letting him dictate things for a while, entrusting her pleasure to his good sense and his tenderness. Jon pushed up into her, dragging out slowly, lifting her just so before slamming back up and pulling her down to meet him.

“Fucking hell, Sansa, I’ve missed you,” he growled into her mouth, grinding against her center where they met. Sansa wailed, trying to stifle the sounds coming out of her mouth, but wasn’t entirely successful. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, kissing his face and head as she rocked against him as best she could, providing extra friction. Her release was sharp and fast, and had her biting at his ear to stop her squeal. His thrusts grew fierce and uneven, stuttering as he chased his own end. Sansa babbled nonsensically in his ear, telling him how good he felt, how well he filled her, that she wanted him to come inside her. One, two, three more thrusts had him jerking against her, grinding deliciously against her oversensitive core as he emptied into her.

“That’s it, there you go,” she groaned. Then she leaned down to kiss him sluggishly, open and messy. She urged his tongue in her mouth, stroking and gentling. Eventually he put a stop to it, nuzzling their mouths together, pressing light, quick kisses to her lips and cheeks.

Jon buried his face in the crook of her neck and tightened his hold on her thighs. Sansa took deep, slow breaths in an attempt to settle him, and twined her fingers in his curls. She loved playing with them, could lose hours doing it. He had such lovely, long curls, and she’d made it her mission to soften them up. She washed those curls with a special Lyseni soap that made them soft and silky. He didn’t like it and his men teased him, but Sansa snootily reminded him whose hands tugged on that hair when he was making her scream.

“So I take it you’re all right, then?” he panted out. Sansa knocked her head back against the wall before ducking down to kiss him again. Quick, firm, loving presses.

“If this is going happen,” she kissed him again, “every time you start fretting,” another kiss, “then mayhap I won’t mind it so much.” The next kiss was longer and bruising.

“I don’t  _ fret _ ,” he murmured against her lips, sucking in her bottom one to tease it with his teeth. She nodded, mumbling that he actually did.

“Are you going to put me down now?”

“No,” he grumbled, licking a stripe up her neck and making her snort.

“Okay, well,” she broke off to giggle when he nipped at the sensitive spots on her neck. “You might be interested to know,” she writhed in his grip, tightening her legs around his waist. He grunted, his cock twitching in her. “I have a plan to make the Keep a little less horrible.”

“Do you now?” he asked. Though given his fixation on her neck and ear, her husband obviously wasn’t interested in her answer just yet.

“Mhhmm,” she hummed, undulating her hips. He mouthed through the fabric at her collarbone and squeezed her backside, somewhat fleshier after six children.  She kissed along his hairline, smiling as she considered her plan.

“I was thinking that maybe to get rid of the bad memories,” she told him, having to bite down on her lip when he reached a particularly sensitive spot above her collarbone. “We should replace them with some good ones,” she finished breathily. That finally got his attention and his eyes, burning like hot, dark coals, latched onto her. Sansa flashed back to the tourney before their wedding, to the intensity of that day. That jolt of heat shot right to her core and she clenched around him, making sure to keep eye contact as she did.

“I think—” Jon let out a shaky breath, “I think we can manage that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he kissed her roughly. “But mayhap one more memory for this one?” It wasn’t really a question. He spun them from the wall and walked them over to the cushions where he followed her down smoothly. She hummed, reaching up to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I remember this move,” she purred, “Too bad there’s not a rock under my back and leaves in my hair.”

“Shut up,” he snickered, reaching down to touch her, bring her to another peak. “You’re going to tell me about every fouled place in this damned keep.” He dropped his head to nuzzle at her breast even as he slipped fingers into her, curling them. “And I am going to fuck you senseless until that is all you remember.”

“Jon, please—” Sansa cried out, gushing into his hand as she hit her peak and clenching her hands in his tunic. But then he was burying himself in her again, gritting out filthy, adoring things that would have scandalized her before they wed. Things she had never expected to want or need from a husband, from him, not when she was so keen on pretty words and lofty compliments. No, Sansa much preferred Jon’s thoughtless honesty, the brutal truth of the carnal thing between them. She preferred to know how much he loved the taste of her, that she was hot and wet and perfect for him even after six babes. Most especially after six babes. She could probably reach her peak just listening to him talk. When Jon reached his end, he pulled out and ducked under her skirts to finish her off with his mouth.

“Gods,” she panted as he re-emerged, “We’re a mess.” Jon pushed forward to flop onto the cushions next to her. Sansa rolled to lay on him, head pillowed on his chest, and his arms came around her possessively.

“A good mess, though,” he answered, stroking the length of her braid.

“Do you think Arya and Bran are doing all right? I know I reminded her to—”

He shushed her, “They will be fine. Sam is there, Davos is there, and Maeor will help them with whatever they might need. You worry too much.”

“Probably. Imagine what I would be like if we had left the twins and Robb behind.”

“An absolute nightmare.” She swatted at him for his cheekiness. “We need to fix ourselves up, love, they’ll come looking for us soon.” She whined as he moved to get up, grousing as he straightened his clothes and helped straighten hers. Sansa didn’t try to help, just stayed limp and placid in his arms, letting him do as he would. He rolled his eyes at her, but didn’t comment.

“I love you,” she whispered. Jon lifted his eyes to hers, a small smile on his lips. Instead he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Now get me out of here so it doesn’t look like you just ravished me on the floor.”

Jon snorted.


End file.
